There was a time I thought I was this body.
Solid. Separate. Defined.
Then I heard an analogy.
The body is like a pot.
And the pot… is just clay.
The form is temporary.
The substance remains.
And something softened.
—
Then came another.
The mind is like a wave.
Rising. Falling. Restless.
But the wave is nothing but the ocean.
And I noticed—
It is not the movement that creates suffering.
It is the forgetting.
—
Fire spoke next.
A spark said, “I am small.”
The flame said nothing.
Because the spark was never separate.
—
Breath entered.
Or so I thought.
But is breath “mine”?
Or am I breathing the same air
that trees exhale
and mountains witness?
Where do I end
and the world begin?
—
And then space…
Not the space outside.
But the space in which thoughts arise.
The chidākāsha.
Silent. Unmoving.
Yet holding everything.
—
But this was not just philosophy.
It began to reveal itself in my life.
—
In my yoga practice,
when body moves and breath flows together—
There are moments
where the boundary softens.
The body is not “mine” anymore.
It is part of something rhythmic.
Something intelligent.
As if the earth is moving,
the air is breathing,
the fire is transforming—
and I am just… included.
—
In my art expressions,
in my doodles of a stream of consciousness—
There are spaces
where thought stops trying to control.
Lines emerge.
Forms appear.
And somewhere in between—
I forget time.
I forget space.
I forget myself.
And in that pause—
Nothing is missing.
—
And then, while traveling…
Watching landscapes shift—
mountains, oceans, cities, skies—
Something unexpected happens.
Instead of feeling like I am moving through space…
It feels like I am expanding into it.
As if the background changes,
but something in me is vast enough
to hold it all.
—
And slowly, I began to understand—
These are not escapes.
They are reminders.
—
Because there were other teachings too.
A rope mistaken for a snake.
A post mistaken for a ghost.
Fear—built not on reality
but on imagination.
—
So I began to see:
The elements tell me
what I am made of.
The illusions tell me
what I am not.
—
And both are necessary.
Because this is not a path of rejection.
It is not about dismissing the body,
or silencing the mind,
or escaping the world.
—
It is about integration.
To fully embody the clay…
the wave…
the breath…
the space…
And in that total inclusion—
Something dissolves on its own.
—
Not forced.
Not practiced.
Just seen.
—
The more everything is included…
the less anything needs to be held.
—
And then a subtle shift happens.
Action continues.
Life continues.
—
But something changes.
Or perhaps—
the center disappears.
—
There is doing.
But less of a “doer.”
There is movement.
But less of a “mover.”
—
And sometimes it feels like—
life is simply expressing itself.
Through this body.
Through this mind.
—
Like a wave being waved by the ocean.
Not controlled.
Not claimed.
Just… conducted.
—
And perhaps that is the invitation:
Not to reject the wave.
Not to deny the pot.
But to live them so fully,
that their source becomes obvious.
—
Because in the end—
The ground was never lost.
Only… overlooked.
—
And the more I see I am nothing…
The more everything feels like me.
—
To embody is not the opposite of transcendence.
It is the doorway.